GIFT  OF 
Hearst  Fountain 


806 1 

'A'N 


limps?  of  iJrtBim  ffitft 


BY 
J.   WESS    MOORE 


LIFE  CONVICT,  No.  18759 

CALIFORNIA  STATE  PRISON 

SAN  QUENTIN,  CAL. 


J.    WESS    MOORE 


TO   WHOM   IT   MAY   CONCERN 

1  he  •writer  of  the  modest  lines  presented  in  "GLIMPSES"  has  been  intimately 
known  to  me  during  the  period  of  his  incarceration,  and  I  have  known  him  only  as 
a  most  kindly,  generous  and  ever-courteous  gentleman,  honest,  truthful  and  sincere, 
and  I  cannot  speak  in  terms  too  highly  as  to  these  qualities.  They  eminently  merit 
the  consideration  of  all  charitable  persons  in  his  most  unfortunate  predicament,  and 
I  trust,  will  win  him  the  friendship  and  assistance  he  deserves,  both  by  reason  of  his 
past  services  and  suffering  for  his  Country  and  his  unfortunate  incarceration  in  this 
Prison  1  commend  him  to  the  favorable  consideration  of  all,  especially  to  my 
1  ellow-comrades  of  the  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic. 
AUGUST  DRAHMS, 

Past  Chaplain-in-Chief,  G.  A.  R. 
Resident  Chaplain,  State  Prison 
San  Quentin 


rqjBp  flf  Prison  ICtfr 

/.    WESS  3SCOORE 


Issued  by  the 

SOCIETY    FOR    THE    FRIENDLESS 
OF   CALIFORNIA 


THE     PICTURE     IN     STRIPES. 

Knowing  as  I  do,  that  the  children  hardly  ever  see  a  prisoner, 
and  never  one  dressed  in  these  hideous  garments,  it  is  for  thoir 
benefit,  and  to  assist  them  to  understand  the  "awfulness"  of 
the  shameful  and  degraded  look  of  a  "  convict,"  I  present 
heroin  my  own  picture,  (not  someone  else)  in  the  prison  garb, 
and  this  picture  is  true  to  life. 

I  leave  the  children  to  their  own  imaginations  as  to  how 
much  more  awful  this  picture  would  appear  had  it  been  made 
when  I  had  just  had  a  close  hair  cut  and  all  the  beard  off  my 
face,  as  is  the  cnse  with  every  boy  and  man  convict  entering 
the  prison. 


GLIMPSE    OF  PRISON  LIFE 


Convict's  Wife  Dies  of  a  Broken. Heart— Prefu>j:?,tio2?,S'.f off :ttie 

Hangings.  ;      \l*'\   ?"*«Vt**«  '••"''' 

(From  the   San  Francisco  Daily  "News/  June   5,   1909.) 

If  you  chance  to  meet  J.  Wess  Moore,  you  won 't  have  any 

trouble   in    identifying    him.      He    looks    more    like    Uncle    Sam 

than    any    one    you    know,    with    the    shrewd,    kindly    features 

familiar  to  the  caricature  and  inevitable  chin  beard.     He  will 

offer    you,    if    you    seem    approachable,    a    pamphlet    of    verse 

entitled,    "Glimpses   of   Prison    Life."      Its   price    is    whatever 

you  are  inclined  to  give,  but  whatever  that  may  be,  it  will  be 

well  applied. 

"Echoes"  were  written  before  Moore  was  admitted  to 
parole.  Every  one  of  them  was  suggested  by  some  experience 
of  his  eight  years  in  stripes,  part  of  his  life  sentence  for  kill 
ing  the  man  who  had  "jumped"  his  claim.  The  verse  form 
is  simple,  often  crude,  but  the  thoughts  ,are  not,  for  they  are 
thoughts  that  would  not  down. 

Moore  did  not  begin  life  either  as  a  poet  or  philosopher.  He 
was  a  farmer  boy  in  the  old  Quaker  town  of  Dublin,  Indiana. 
Wheii  barely  15  years  of  age  he  ran  away  to  war.  He  was  too 
? young  to  enlist,  so  he  went  as  a  drummer  boy  and  camp  fol- 
v  lower  with  the  village  volunteers  in  the  Army  of  the  Cumber 
land.  A  year  later  he  was  sent  home  sick,  when  he  obtained 
his  mother's  consent  to  enlist.  Then  he  served  two  years  and 
two  months  more,  with  Sherman  to  the  sea,  and  in  the  bloody 
fields  of  Atlanta.  When  mustered  out,  he  farmed  in  Indiana 
until  ruined  by  floods,  which  sent  him  west  to  Nebraska.  Here 
a  cyclone  demolished  his  buildings  and  he  came  on  to  Califor 
nia.  With  him  came  his  wife.  She  died  of  a  broken  heart 
after  28  years  of  married  life  while  he  was  still  in  San  Quentin. 
"O  precious,  faithful,  gentle  wife,  how  can  I  bear  this  sorrow, 
Alone,  bereft,  a  felon's  life,  today,  perhaps  tomorrow," — 

Wrote  the  prisoner.  Capt.  Ellis  of  the  guard  broke  the  news 
to  Moore.  She  had  followed  her  husband  to  the  prison,  where 
she  found  work,  first  in  the  steward's  home  and  then  with  the 
family  of  Guard  White.  Two  or  three  times  a  week  she  used 
to  see  him,  when  she  would  give  him  delicacies  made  with  her 
own  hands  to  vary  the  rough  prison  fare. 

OFFERS  TO  BE  HOSTAGE. 

Mrs.  E.  G.  Humphrey,  a  missionary,  offered  to  act  as  a  hos 
tage  could  Moore  be  allowed  to  follow  his  helpmate  to  the 
grave,  but  Warden  Aguirre  could  find  no  such  precedent  in  the 
regulations.  So  the  prisoner  prayed  in  his  cell. 

Moore  is  a  cautious  talker.  But  he  tells  how  he  spent  his 
time  and  of  the  general  life  of  the  prisoners  freely  enough, 
though  without  comment. 

For  the  first  14  months  Moore  worked  in  the  jute  mill,  when, 
on  account  of  poor  health,  he  was  given  the  congenial  employ 
ment  of  prison  librarian  under  Warden  Aguirre.  Then  came 
Warden  John  W.  Tompkins.  Moore  was  summoned  one  night 
before  Warden  Tompkins.  He  came  in  hobbling  on  two  canes. 
Tompkins  accused  him  of  having  received  smuggled  tobacco 
from  a  guard.  Moore  gave  an  answer  that  brought  swift  pun 
ishment.  Clad  in  dungeon  clothes  he  spent  three  days  in  the 
incorrigible  cell,  condemned  to  silence.  But  Prison  Director 
James  Wilkins  heard  of  it  and  ordered  his  release.  Tompkins* 


GLIMPSE   OF  PRISON  LIFE 


reasc;n  .was^that^  he  heard  Moore  was  trying  to  smuggle  out  an 
ai'iicie- 'to  a,  ne^yppupor.  The  :next  20  months  the  old  man  sat 
with  aching'  back'  ami  ^numbed  fingers  picking  jute.  He  had 
learned  what  it  meant  to  incur  the  displeasure  of  Warden 
Tompkins.  Perhaps  this  is  why  he  wrote: 

"I've  masters  here  within  these  walls 

Who  guard  my  every  move, 
But  One  there  is  above  them  all 
Who  guides  me  with  His  love. ' ' 
GETS  EASIER  JOB. 

But  a  change  was  coming.  Warden  Tompkins  was  deposed. 
Under  Warden  Edgar,  succeeding,  the  sick  prisoner  was  allowed 
to  loaf  about  in  the  prison  yard,  to  bask  in  God's  sunshine  and 
look  up  into  the  blue  vault  of  heaven.  And  when  he  had  be 
come  well  enough,  he  was  put  in  charge  of  the  condemned  cells. 

This  is  an  envied  post,  says  Moore,  for  the  work  is  light 
and  the  food  the  finest  in  the  market. 

The  beef  that  is  fattened  for  slaughter  gets  the  best  in  the 
bin.  So  is  the  gallows  choice  of  diet.  The  men  that  are  to 
hang  are  fed  on  the  best  in  the  land,  and  left  to  lie  and  fatten 
in  their  cells.  Once  a  day  they  take  the  air  in  the  corridors 
for  an  hour  and  a  half.  *  They  are  a  quiet  lot  of  men,  says 
Moore.  Some  of  them  pray  a  great  deal,  and  some  not  at  all. 
Then  comes  the  time  when  they  are  led  to  the  death  cells,  where 
none  sees  them  but  the  guard  and  the  minister.  But  the  guard 
always  sees  them,  asleep  and  awake,  for  the  gallows  must  not 
be  cheated  of  its  prey. 

Moore  made  many  friends  among  the  condemned  men.  He 
knew  Siemsen  and  Dabner,  the  gas  pipe  thugs,  well.  As  Siem- 
sen  passed  to  the  death  watch,  he  held  out  a  shackled  hand 
with  a  cheery  "Good-bye,  Dad."  But  Dabner  did  not  say 
"Good-bye,  Dad,"  as  he  followed  with  sullen  and  unseeing 
-eyes. 

DEATH  DEPRESSES  MEN. 

When  a  man  is  led  from  the  condemned  cells  to  the  death 
watch,  says  Moore,  gloom  falls  over  the  prison.  Moody  looks 
are  passed,  and  things  whispered  behind  the  guards'  backs. 
Three  or  four  days  elapse,  then  the  prison  yard  is  cleared.  Vis 
itors  pass  by  in  the  early-  morning.  The  men  pick  and  twist 
their  jute,  or  labor  in  laundry  or  shop  in  the  unusual  prison  rou 
tine.  Then  the  visitors  walk  out.  There  is  no  need  to  say  that 
a  neck  has  been  snapped  and  a  soul  loosed  to  face  its  Maker. 
The  day  seems  endlessly  long,  the  food  tastes  bitter  and  no 
pleasantry  passes  among  the  men  on  the  day  a  neck  is  snapped. 

In  one  of  his  poems,  Moore  writes: 

"Had  we  no  thorns  among  our  flowers, 

No  sorrows  and  no  tears, 
We  might  get  careless  and  forget 
This  life  is  but  few  years." 

So  a  hanging  is  therefore  nothing  but  an  emblem  of  mortality. 
PRISON'S  BRIGHTER  SIDE. 

But  there  is  a  brighter  side  to  San  Quentin  life.     The  men 
turn  out  at  6  o  'clock  in  summer  and  7  m  winter.     In  the  after 
noon  they  are  in  their  quarters  at  10  minutes  to  5    or  on  Sun- 
davs  and  holidays  at  a  quarter  to  three      On  *hen4%°£  **£ 
and    Christmas    Day    there    is    a    minstrel    show.      On    Sundays, 


GLIMPSE     OF  PRISON  LIFE 


"Dad"  Moore  taught  Sunday  school  in  the  morning  among  the 
younger  prisoners  and  preached  when  the  chaplain  had  finished, 
and  picked  up  his  fiddle  at  4  o'clock  and  play  the  "Arkansaw 
Traveler"  and  other  old  tunes  for  the  boys  to  dance  by,  play 
ing  until  they  were  tired.  He  learned  to  fiddle  in  the  army. 

Moore's  happiest  memories  of  prison  life  attach  to  Warden 
John  Hoyle.  It  was  not  that  Hoyle  let  him  loaf  about  the  yard 
because  his  legs  were  half  paralyzed,  to  write  letters  for  illit 
erate  prisoners.  It  was  that  Hoyle  would  go  out  of  his  way 
to  hear  a  prisoner's  tale.  There  had  been  wardens  who  regarded 
the  prisoners  as  beasts,  to  be  thrown  into  dungeons  on  the 
words  of  stool  pigeons.  But  big-hearted  John  Hoyle  is  not  of 
these. 

ACTS  OF  DEVOTION. 

"The  sweetest  acts  of  devotion  I  have  ever  seen  in  my  life," 
says  Moore,  ' '  have  been  in  prison. ' ' 

There  have  been  instances,  though  rare,  of  ingratitude  too 
base  for  belief,  he  adds,  but  charity  is  far  the  more  common. 
A  man  will  step  in  and  take  the  punishment  for  an  act,  be 
cause  the  real  culprit  is  sick  or  unfortunate.  But  these  acts  are 
known  only  to  the  prisoners.  There  is  no  fraternity  so  strong 
as  among  outcast  men. 

Not  every  man  that  wears  stripes  is  a  criminal.  Indeed, 
many  of  them  are  like  Moore.  They  have  acted  on  impulse, 
more  than  likely  when  crazed  with  drink.  It  is  Moore 's  work 
now  to  help  them  start  in  life. 

He  writes  of  the  prison  hill  "where  sleep  the  convict  dead:" 
"Those  little  mounds  that   dot  the  hill, 
And  the  weeds  that  o  'er  them  grow, 
May  cover  hearts  both  kind  and   true — 

Yet  none  but  God  may  know. ' ' 
So  it  is  of  the  living. 

MY  HAPPY  HOME. 

In  the  valley  green  by  the  mountain 's  side, 

A  home  of  joy  I  did  provide. 
My  wife  hath  labored  at  my  side 

As  we  in  life  no  ills  betide, 
Xow,  looking  sadly  back  through  years 

Fraught  with  dangers  and  with  tears, 
All  my  hopes  like  all  my  fears 

Now  are  crushed  by  cruel  sneers. 
Our  home,  no  longer  filled  with  mirth, 

In   which   our   joy   was   given   birth, 
Is   now   another's   home   and   hearth, 

My  peace  and  joy  returned  to  earth. 

MY  PRESENT  HOME. 

Here  sorrowed  lives  are  seldom  cheered, 

Nor  duties  lightened  through  the   years, 
Hearts  made  sad  by  convict  jeers, 

And  Heaven's  beauty  drowned  by  sneers, 
Where  a  friendly  word  in  kindness  said 

Will   cheer   the    convict,   living   dead. 
This  is  my  home,  so  it  is  said; 

A  home  for  many  convict  dead. 


GLIMPSE    OF  PRISON  LIFE 


MY     HOME     PRAYER 

0  Lord,  forgive  my  evil  deeds, 

In  Thee  I  trust  for  all  my  needs; 
No  more  I'll  sow  the  cruel  seeds, 

For  now,   dear  Lord,    'tis  Thou  who  leads. 

1  know  my  home  in  the  valley  old 

Was  a  home  of  toil  and  love  for  gold, 
Not   so   that   home  which   did   unfold, 

On  Calvary's  brow  by  Scripture  told. 
O  home,  sweet  home,  O  home  of  love, 

May  I  ere  long  go  home  above 
And   dwell  with  Him  in  peace  and  love, 

Within  that  home,  sweet  home  above. 

HOME     OF     THE     LIVING     DEAD 

San  Quentin's  a  home  where  convicts  groan, 

A  home  of  fear  and  dread, 
Where   prayer's   unheard   and   hope's   deferred, 

A  home  for  the  living  dead. 
This  is  the  place  where  the  convict's  face 

Sure  despair  bespeaks, 
The  sunken  eye,  the  deep  drawn  sigh, 

Are  brands  like  the  hollow  cheeks. 
This  is  the  spot  that  men  love  not, 

And  friendships  are  seldom  known, 
Where  the  traitorous  knave  will  deceive  the  brave 

And  the  gallows  claim  its  own. 
This  is  the  place  where  the  assassin's  face 

Is  looking  for  one  to  kill, 
Just  a  word,  then  a  stab,  a  stain  on  a  slab, 

A  numbered  grave  on  the  hill. 
His  task  now  done,  life's  song  is  sung, 

His  rest  has  come  at  last, 
Where  the  serpent's  creep  won't  disturb  his  sleep 

In    heaven:    compared    with    his    past, 
WTe  sometimes  fear  we  may  not  hear 

The  voice  of  a  mother  true, 
Or  enjoy  the  bliss  of  the  loved  one's  kiss, 

Who  have  waited  our  sentence  through. 
And  some  there  are  who  will  look  afar, 

And  see  no  joy  ahead; 
Just  the  task  of  the  slave,  a  numbered  grave, 

By  the  home  of  the  living  dead. 
The'  widow  will   weep  while  the  orphans  sleep, 

After  their  prayers   are  said, 
But  the  mother  from  grief  will  find  no  relief. 

As  she  tucks  the  babies  in  bed. 
San  Quentin's  a  home  of  brick  and  stone, 

Her  walls  with  doors  ajar 
For  those  who  incline  to  cast  hope  behind 

And   appear   at   her  judgment   bar. 
So  children  dear,  I  pray  you  keep  clear 

Of  the  home  of  fear  and  dread, 
Where  prayers  are  unheard  and  hope's  deferred, 
•'Tis  a  home  for  the  living  dead. 


GLIMPSE    OF  PRISON  LIFE 


MOTHER     TEACH     ME 

0  teach  me,  mother,  how  to  pray  and  how  my  soul  to  fill, 
With  love  for  all  mankind  today,  and  do  God's  holy  will; 

For  I  am  but  a  little  child,  dear  mother,  teach  me  how 

To  grow  in  strength  and  love  and  power  to  keep  my  sacred 
vow. 

For  I  have  vowed  to  serve  the  Lord,  I  vowed  in  earnest,  too, 
And  I  must  trust  His  Holy  word  and  you  to  help  me  do. 

1  love  you,  mother,  father,  too,  and  we  three  love  each  other, 
We  love  the  Lord  who   with  us  dwells  more   closely  than  a 

brother. 

1  love  the  ones  who  labor  hard  the  sorrowed  hearts  to  cheer. 
And   also   those  who've   not   been   taught  just  how  the  Lord 

to  fear; 
I  wish  to  love  all  those  who  dwell  in  palace,  field  or  jail, 

T  love  those  too,  who  do  not  know  God's  promise  cannot  fail. 

Dear  mother,  teach  me  how  to  pray  that  God  my  plea  will  hear, 

And    help   me    bring   to   some    poor    soul    a    blessing    of   good 

cheer; 
Snould  that  poor  soul  in  dungeon  dwell  behind  great  locks  and 

bars, 

Shut  out  from  freedom's  liberty,  the  sun,  the  moon  and  stars. 
Then  more  I'll  pray  and  more  I'll  do  to  serve  the  water  cold. 

Which  Jesus  taught  was  better  far  than  the  refiner's  gold. 
Dear  mother,  help  me  heed  the  call  and  teach  me  day  by  day, 
O  teach  me  how  to  love  Him  more.     Please  teach  me  how  to 
pray. 

THE    PENITENT     CONVICT'S     PRAYER. 

Thou   nearest,  O  God,  in  the  morning, 

Thou  hearest  at  noon  and  at  night, 
Thou  hearest  my  prayer  in  the  evening. 

My  sins  lay  bare  to  Thy  sight; 
I  mourn  my  awful  condition, 

While  sorrows   make   heavy  my  heart, 
Because  from  the  dear  ones  Thou  gave  me, 

My  sins  hath  set  me  apart. 
Father  of  love  and  great  mercy, 

I  pray  Thee  while  humbled  I  be, 
To  grant  my  prayer  of  repentance, 

My  sins  I  bring  all   to   Thee. 
My  wrongs  were  cruel  and  many, 

While  Satan  was  leading  along, 
Shame   hath   hidden   my  gladness, 

I  live  with  the  convict   throng. 
And  now,  dear  Lord,  I  acknowledge, 

Although   my  confession  is  frail, 
That  Thou,  in  great  love  and  mercy, 

Hath  found  me  and  saved  me  in  jail. 
Through  the  great,  high  walls  of  my  prison 

Thy  sun  in  my  soul  did  shine; 
I   received   Thy  love   and   forgiveness, 

So  now,  dear  Lord,  I  am  Thine. 
O  Father,  forgive  me  for  breaking 

The  heart  of  a  mother  so  dear, 
And   unite   us   again   by  Thy  Spirit, 

And  bring  to   her  soul   good  cheer. 


GLIMPSE    OF  PRISON  LIFE 


Dear  Lord,  forgive  me  for  sowing 

The  tares  in  the  place  of  grain, 
O  Father,  please  grant  my  petition, 

Then  forever  with  Thee  will  I  reign. 

A   LETTER   TO   WIFE. 

-•••••.  h,y  loved  and  1'ailliful  wif(\  for  tlioc  this  night  I  pray, 

:         -iiee  I'd  <;»rrifif'c   my  lift?  could  this  thy  sorrows  stay;" 
Thy  cup  is  full  and  overrun  with  trials,  tears  and  strife, 

Thy  face  with  tears  doth  ever  burn,  thou  faithful  gentle  wife. 
'Twas  five  and  twenty  years  ago  that  thou  and  I  were  wed, 

We've  labored  Hand  in  hand,  we  know,  to  earn  our  daily  bread; 
We  lived  a  life  of  honest  toil,  we  loved  the  Lord  our  God, 

While  trials  many  'bout  us  coil,  as  wre  through  life  have  trod. 
I,  buried  now    'neath  prison  walls,  under  sentence  for  my  life, 

Will  pray  with  thee  till  Jesus  calls,  my  gentle,  faithful  wife. 
Then  hand  in  hand  we  toil  no  more,  then  soul  with  soul  we'll 
love 

And  over  on  the  heavenly  shore  we'll  dwell  with  Christ  above. 

LORD'S     DAY     IN     SAN     QUENTIN. 

There 's  many  long  years  in  the  past, 

Years  so  filled  with  sorrow, 
Years  in  which  we  have  suffered, 

Dreading  to  see  the  tomorrow; 
Years  of  strife  and  conflict, 

Years  both  cruel  and  sad, 
Years  of  woe  and  misery, 

Years   when   wardens  were   mad. 
Why  should  a  warden  be  cruel, 

To  helpless  ones  locked  in, 
WThom   the  law  itself   will   punish 

For  crime  committed  with  sin. 
Why   should   he   not   be   gentle, 

Seeking  the  power  from   on  high, 
Or  pray  for  our  redemption, 

While  we  for  mercy  must  cry? 
O  Lord,  we  thank  Thee  with  fervor, 

Thy  love  is  manifest  now, 
WTithin  the  walls  of  San  Quentin, 

Where  humbly  before  Thee  we  bow 
To   thank,   and   praise   Thee    forever, 

For  thy  blessings  have  come  to  stay, 
Bringing  peace  with  joy  and  comfort, 

And  bringing  to  us,  Lord's  Day. 
Lord's  day  in  wicked  San  Quentin! 

Who  hath  heard  of  any  such  thing? 
Yes,  today,  in  prison  San  Quentin, 

Her  walls  with  praises  ring. 
And  now  in  wicked  San  Quentin, 

Our  love  is  mingled  with  toil; 
Lord's  day  in  prison  San  Quentin 

Was  the  day  Thou  sent  us  John  Hoyle. 
Every  day  we  pray  Thee  to  bless  him, 

With  wisdom  sent  from  above, 
To  help  him  reform  the  penitent, 

For  we  our  warden  love. 


GLIMPSE    OF  PRISON  LIFE 


Lord   bless   his   beautiful   effort. 

To  gladden  each  soul  on  the  wa}', 
And  help  us  Father,  assist  him 

In  keeping  in  memory  Lord's  day. 
We  thank  Thee,  O  Lord,  most  gracious, 

All  voices  unite  in  Thy  praise, 
Because  from  the  ranks  of  the  humble, 

A  warden  so  kind  did  Thou  raise, 
Like   Noah   of  old   doth   he   labor, 

That  wicked  old  serpent  to  foil, 
Like  Noah  of  old,  a  reformer, 

God  bless  our  warden,  John  Hoyle. 

LETTER     TO     PAPA 

Dear  Papa,  why  don 't  you  come  home. 
Poor  mamma  is  sick  and  in  bed, 

Why  should  you  leave  us  alone, 

My  mamma  with  grief  is  most  dead. 

1  am  hungry,  dear  papa,  and  tired, 
Our  house  is  as  cold  as  can  be. 

I'm  barefoot,   and   mamma  keeps   crying, 
Please  papa,  have  pity  on  me. 

Dear  papa,  when  you  were  not  here 

At  morning,  at  noon,  or  at  night, 

We  thought  it  so  strange  at  the  time, 
In  the  window  we  set  you  a  light. 

All  night  and  all  day  have  we  waited, 
While  watching  for  you   to   come. 

My  mamma  with  sorrow  is  dying. 

Please  papa,  dear  papa,  come  home. 

Your  poor  little  Nettie  is  weeping. 
The  Nettie  you  love  so  dear, 

And  praying  that  God  will  now  send  you, 
And  bring  my  mamma  good  cheer. 

Now  papa,  I  bid  you  good-night, 

At  mamma 's  bedside  I  will  pray 

That  God  will  send  you  to  us, 

Before  taking  poor  mamma  away. 

Now  papa,  she's  weeping  most  bitter, 
And  she's  so   weak  and  so  frail, 

Just  now  to  me  she  has  whispered, 
Poor  Nettie,  your  papa's  in  jail. 

Dear  Lord,  if  thus  I  must  suffer, 

Increase  my  strength  and  my  reason; 

I'm  alone  with  the  corpse  of  my  mother, 
Poor  papa's  away  in  the  prison. 

HAD   WE   NO    THORNS. 

Had  we  no  thorns  among  our  flowers, 

No  sorrows  and  no  tears, 
We   might    get    careless    and    forget, 

This  life  is  but  few  years. 


10  GLIMPSE    OF  PRISON  LIFE 


Our  home  outside  these  high  stone  walls, 

Where   live  the   ones   we  love, 
Was   an  earthly  home  and  only  brief, 

Not  so,  that  home  above. 

O  precious  hour  when  from  myself, 

I  throw  these  garments  down, 
And  wake  up  in  the  home  of  love, 

To  wear  a  righteous  crown. 

My  God  my  cup  hath  wisely  filled, 

With  sorrow,  joy  and  grief, 
Xow  I  shall  seek  a  home  above, 

And  find  a  sure  relief. 

I've  masters  here  within  these  walls 

Who  guard  my  every  move. 
But  One  there  is  above  them  all, 

Who  guides  me  by  His  love. 

So  I  must   faithful  serve  them  each, 

As  best  I  can  and  know, 
For  truly  we,  who  evil  reap, 

Did  of  the  evil  sowr. 

We  must  atone  for  our  mistakes, 

Assisting  those  more  frail, 
Who  seem  to  have  no  earthly  friend, 

Except  within  the  jail. 

Dear  Lord,  direct  my  every  move 

As  Thou  hast  done  the  Pilgrim; 
And  help  me  help  the  weak  and  sick, 

God  help  me  help  the  children. 

THE     PRISONER'S     PRAYER. 

Kneeling  on  the  cold  stone  floor  dressed  in  convict  garb, 
Pleading  with  God  for  mercy  from  a  heart  once  cruel  and  hard; 
Humbled  before  his  cell-mates  who  scorn  his  simple  plea, 
He   breathes   the   prayer   of   the   penitent,   seeking   from   sin   to 

be  free. 

Eyes  are  blinded  from  weeping,  tears  unbidden  must  flow, 
Soul  in  anguish  is  calling  for  more  of  God's  love  to  know. 
Dear  Lord,  forgive  me  the  errors  committed  while  angered  and 

mad, 
And  bless  the  wife  of  my  bosom  now  sorrowed  so  lonely  and 

sad, 

God  bless  our  innocent  children  who  suffer  much  more  than  we, 
Because  of  my  transgressions,   committed,   which  now  I  see. 
Forgive  me,  dear  Lord,  for  sowing  the  tares  among  the  grain, 

0  Lord,  forgive  me  for  using  the  filth  that  maddened  my  brain, 
Forgive,  O  Heavenly  Father,  in  mercy  forgive  me  now, 

For  the  sake  of  ou/dear  Savior  who  died  on  Calvary's  brow. 

1  pray  Thee  bless  my  enemies,  likewise  my  friends  so  dear, 
And  bless  my  brethren  in  prison  who  need  Thy  love  and  cheer. 
Dear  Lord,  my  prayer  is  simple  and  Thou  hast  willed  it  so, 

O  help  me,  Heavenly  Father,  some  seeds  of  good  to  sow. 
May  I  not  atone  for  errors  recorded  in  Heaven  above, 

By  faithfully  serving  the  Master  who  died  for  me  in  love. 

O  bless  our  "prison  officials  who  treat  us  so  kindly  now, 


GLIMPSE    OF  PRISON  LIFE  11 


And  spare  them  Heavenly  Father,  their  souls  with  power  endow. 
Thy  blessings,  dear  Lord,  are  many  which  Thou  hast  willed  to 

men, 
Thou  gave  Thy  Son  as  a  ransom,  Hallelujah  to  God!   Amen! 

SHE  HAS  LEFT  ME. 

O  precious,  faithful,  gentle  wife,  how  can  I  bear  this  sorrow, 

Alone,   bereft,    a    felon's   life,    today,    perhaps    tomorrow, 
No  more  at  old  San  Quentin  's  gate  we  '11  meet  to  talk  and  pray, 
No  more  out  there  for  me  she'll  wait,  we'll  meet  on  Judgment 

day. 
When  over  on  the  heavenly  shore  we'll  pass  through  heaven's 

gate, 

Where  we  shall  live  forevermore  and  angels  on  us  wait. 
They'll    show    us    round    the    great    white    throne    whereon    our 

Savior  stands, 
And  welcome   us  to   home,  sweet   home,  where  are  no   prison 

bands. 
O  precious  one,   'tis  sweet  to  know  thy  sorrows  had  an  end, 

Into  thy  presence  soon  I'll  go,  our  tears  no  more  to  blend; 
Out  on  Mount  Tamalpais'  lawn,  close  by  Pacific's  tide, 

They  buried  her  with  prayers  and  song.     Left   room  for  me 
close  by  her  side. 

SAN   QUENTIN 'S   BUGGED   HILL. 

There's  a  rugged  hill  by  Pacific's  tide. 
Where  the  weeds  do   not   grow  tall; 

A  r>lace  of  dread  to  the  passers  by. 
When  the  evening's  shadows  fall. 

The  laugh  grows  mute,  their  voices  hush, 

Thev  pass  with  quickened  tread; 
This   little    spot   on   this   big   e?rth. 

Where  sleep  the  convict  dead. 

There  many  lives  that   promised  fail- 
In  boyhood's  early  time, 

Lie  stranded   there,   poor  battered  hulks 
Wrecked  by  the  waves  of  crime. 

Those  little  mounds  that  dot  the  hill 
And  the  weeds  that  o  'er  them  grow, 

Mav  cover  hearts  both  kind  and  true. 
Yet  none  but  God  may  know. 

The  hope  of  many  a  household  fair 

And  many  a  mother's  pride, 
Lies  here  unwept,  unsought,   unknown, 

Close   by  Pacific's   tide. 

God  grant  that  in  their  life  somewhere. 

They  did  some   deed  of  love. 
To   balance   with    their   errors    in 

Thy  book  of  life  above. 

God  bless  and  keep  those  anxious  hearts 

In   near  and   far-off  homes, 
Who    wait    in    tender,    patient   love, 

For  him  who  never  conies. 


12  GLIMPSE    OF  PEISON  LIFE 


They  wait  to  hear  that  familiar  step, 

That 's  now  forever  still, 
They're  watching  for  the  boy  that  lies 

On  Quentin's  rugged  hill. 

And  while  the  breakers  nearer  creep, 

And   ships   sail   on   the   bay, 
That  mother,   sister,  loyal  wife, 

Will  wait  and  watch  and  pray. 

ASLEEP     IN     THE     STREET. 

A  little  child  lay  in  the  street, 

Her   golden   locks   a  tangled  mass: 
Her  hands  were  bare,  so  were  her  feet, 

And  many  people  did  her  pass. 

There  chanced  to  come  a  lady  kind, 

And  roused   this  little   sleeper, 
Inquired  of  her,  her  mother's  name, 

But   she    could   only   whisper, 

I  'm  sleepy,  ma  'am,  please  let  me  sleep, 

I 's  sick  and  pain  all  over, 
Please  let  me  in  some  warm  place  creep, 

My  hands  and  feet  to  cover. 

What  is  your  name,  sweet  precious  child, 
And  where 's  your  home  and  mother, 

Have  you  no  parents,  kind  and  mild, 
Xo  sister  or  a  brother? 

My  mamma's  gone  away  to  stay, 

Her  name  was  Rachel  Wilson; 
And  brother  died  last  Christmas  day. 

My  papa,  he's  in  prison. 

O,  I's  so  tired  and  sleepy,  ma'am. 

Just  let  me  lay  and  rest, 
For  soon  I  shall  be  going  home 

To  sleep  on  Jesus'  breast. 

This  little  child  so  poorly  clad, 

Her  soul  so  crushed  with  sorrow. 
Was   taken  up   and   tucked  in  bed, 

They'll  bury  her  tomorrow. 

Then  raise  a  marble  at  her  grave, 

And  carve  this  simple  tale; 
1 '  My  mamma 's  gone  away  to  stay, 

And  papa,  he  's  in  jail. ' ' 

JOSIE,    DON'T    THEE     "EVER"     DESERT:       FAREWELL. 

(This  paper  was  read  at  our  camp-fire  here,  May  30.  1908.) 
Away  back  in  the   sixties,  in   the  quiet  old   quaker   town  of 
Dublin,    Indiana,    when    I    was    a    fatherless,    beardless    lad    of 
fifteen  summers,  I  wanted  to  go  to   war. 

When  I  saw  Joe  Modlin,  Will  Jay,  Tommie  Smith,  Griff 
Cooney,  Lon  Ried,  John  Long  and  other  of  my  boy  chums 
enlist,  some  of  whom  were  but  little  older  than  myself,  I 
determined  to  go  also.  But  owing  to  my  youth,  it  first  became 
necessary  for  me  to  have  my  mother's  written  consent,  and 


GLIMPSE    OF  PEISON  LIFE  13 


this  I  failed  to  obtain  until  my  mother  discovered  my  plans  to 
run  away,  change  my  name  and  go  with  strangers.  This  she 
could  not  stand,  and  at  last,  when  the  hour  for  the  departure 
of  my  boy  chums  had  arrived,  she  yielded  to  my  request  and 
gave  consent.  Seizing  the  little  note,  and  with  little  Dora 
Johnson  trotting  at  my  side,  we  hastened  to  the  office  of  Cap 
tain  M.  D.  Leeson,  where  I  was  enlisted  as  private  Joseph  W. 
Moore,  Co.  B,  5th  Indiana  Cavalry  Volunteers,  and  soon  on  my 
way  back  to  mother's  house  to  spend  my  last  night  in  how  long, 
God  alone  knew. 

On  the  following  morning,  when  I  had  taken  a  long  last  look 
about  the  dear  old  home,  had  drank  once  more  from  the  little 
gimlet  hole  in  the  old  wood  pump  spout,  and  mother,  my  little 
brother  Allie  and  myself  had  discussed  the  possibilities  of  my 
soon  home-coming,  mother  threw  her  arms  around  me  and 
pressed  me  to  her  heart  as  only  a  mother  can,  and  as  the  tears 
fell  from  her  sweet  face  she  said,  "Josie,  don't  thee  'ever' 
desert.  God  bless  and  keep  my  boy.  Farewell. ' ' 

I  then  walked  away  to  join  my  comrades  and  to  follow  the 
fortunes  of  active  service  in  times  of  war. 

In  the  days  that  followed,  when  on  the  march,  on  the  picket 
line  or  on  the  post  of  the  lone  sentinel  in  the  darkness  of  night, 
I  would  hear  constantly  ringing  in  my  ear:  Josie,  don't  thee 
ever  desert;  yea,  and  unto  this  day,  and  over  and  above  that 
awful  sentence  pronounced  upon  me  on  the  5th  day  of  Sept., 
1900,  in  the  court-house  in  AYeaverville,  Trinity  County,  Cali 
fornia,  by  that  eminent  and  beloved  jurist,  Edward  Sweeny: 
"To  be  confined  in  State  Prison  at  San  Quentin  during  your 
natural  life,"  I  yet  hear  my  mother's  prayer  to  be  true  to  my 
country  and  flag.  Today,  the  few  battered  old  hulks  we  see 
around  us,  which  were,  in  days  past  flowers  in  full  bloom  in  the 
once  mighty  armies  of  the  Potomac,  the  Cumberland,  the  Miss 
issippi,  and  the  navies  of  the  sea,  are  but  a  fragment  of  the 
remnant  of  those  great  armies  now  vanishing  forever,  as  one 
by  one  in  quick  succession  we  challenge  the  lone  sentinel  along 
the  grand  march  from  Bull  Run,  Shilo,  Mission  Eidge  and  the 
swamps  and  wilderness  drenched  in  human  blood,  to  our  eternal 
tenting  ground  just  over  the  divide. 

Our  beloved  leaders:  our  martyred  Lincoln,  the  brave  Grant, 
Sherman,  Sheridan,  McPherson,  Logan,  Lyon  and  a  host  of 
others  whose  memory  is  dear  have  already  saluted  the  last  lone 
sentinel  and  have  pitched  their  everlasting  habitation  in  that 
beautiful  valley  where  the  "well-done,  faithful  servants,"  for 
ever  rest  in  peace. 

Today,  my  mind  slips  back  down  the  line  to  where  the  rank 
and  file  rubbed  elbows  in  the  dust,  mud  and  storm,  'neath 
smoke  enshrouded  skies,  where  streams  run  acrimsoued  red 
with  the  blood  of  American  boys  and  men,  and  graves  marked 
"unknown"  contain  the  bodies  of  heroes,  who,  rather  than 
desert  gave  their  all  that  our  government  may  live  on  and  on. 

Costly  as  it  was,  we  fought  a  winning  fight  and  our  people 
have  no  lost  cause  to  mourn,  and  the  government  we  saved  will 
provide  our  temporal  needs  w7hen  aged,  infirm  and  needy,  and 
thus  wrill  compensate  our  services,  and  as  long  as  we  cling  to 
the  battered  old  flag  of  the  republic  as  we  hobble  along  in 


14  GLIMPSE    OF  PRISON  LIFE 


rcvi.-w  on  crutch,  cane  or  wooden  peg,  each  reviewer  will  have 
a  warm  spot  within  the  heart  for  us. 

Surrounded  by  misery  and  woe  as  I  am  today,  how  can  I  be 
generous  in  thought,  deed  or  act,  while  I  see  men  of  my  own 
country  and  home, — some  of  whom  were  my  comrades  in  the 
blue  uniform  of  the  United  States— standing  over  me  with 
rifle  shotted,  listening  to  catch  my  every  word,  noting  my 
every  move,  keeping  an  hourly  record  of  my  life  and  ready  to 
shoot  me  down  unarmed  as  I  am  at  the  very  first  move  I  may 
make  looking  that  I  shall  attempt  to  flee  this  enduring  death 
without  lawful  procedure;  and  thus  it  is  that  I  sometimes 
wonder  "have  our  people  fully  appreciated  my  services  to  our 
country? 

Yet,  with  all  this  I  am  willing  to  concede  that  the  existing 
conditions  must  of  necessity  continue  indefinitely. 

But.  in  the  last  evening's  twilight  of  a  life  of  hard  honest 
toil  and  patriotic  services  to  society  and  country,  a  life  charac 
terized  as  that  of  good  citizenship,  it  does  seem  hard  that  I 
must  be  adjudged  by  my  own  neighbors  and  fellow  country 
men  to  be  wholly  unfitted  to  longer  enjoy  the  sacred  home 
circle,  which  has  cost  so  many  years  of  toil  and  endurance  to 
establish  and  acquire,  or  to  mingle  again  with  respectable 
society. 

Now,  I  look  just  beyond  the  walls  of  my  prison  home  and 
there  see  that  beautiful  star  spangled  banner,  so  proudly 
floating  on  the  waves  of  air  from  off  the  mighty  Pacific,  and 
as  f  remember  that  I  now  have  no  flag,  save  these  stripes  of 
scorn  and  everlasting  contempt,  no  country  save  the  little  spot 
within  the  grim  walls  of  old  San  Quentin  my  heart  sinks 
within  me  and  I  cry  out,  how  long,  O  Lord,  how  long,  will  this 
be:  then  to  remember  that  I  must  patiently  endure  this  living 
death  for  how  long  G-od  alone  knows,  I  say,  it  seems  hard,  and 
such  reflections  must  bring  sorrow  to  the  strongest,  but  the 
most  sad  of  all  moments  are  those  in  which  I  contemplate 
grim  old  death  tapping  on  my  cell  wicket  and  calling  as  does 
the  guard  who  stands  over  me  when  a  friend  visits  with  me 
for  half  an  hour.  No.  18,759,  Moore,  time's  up  come  along; 
and  to  know  there  will  be  none  there  who  were  near  and  dear 
in  this  life  to  bear  away  this  wornout  old  body,  and  after  all, 
this  body  of  mine  must"  repose  in  a  felon's  grave,  unhonored, 
unwept  and  soon  forgotten;  I  say,  "It  seems  hard." 

J.   \Vess   Moore,  life  sentenced   convict,   No.    18759 
California  State  Prison,  San  Quentin,  May  30th,   1908. 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  WHAT  OF  THEE? 

O  Frisco,  Frisco,  what  of  thee, 

To  whom  all  nations  bend  the  knee, 

Thy  majesty   has  ceased   to   be, 

Thy  fate  was  hurled  from  sea  to  sea. 

O'er  awful  evils  day  and  night, 

fhou  sat  a   queen  in  jewels  bright; 

God  sent  His  power  in  His  own   might, 
Thy  temples  made  an  awful  sight. 


GLIMPSE    OF  PRISON  LIFE  15 


Thy  fame  had  gone  from  shore  to  shore, 
And  cleft  the  clouds  where  eagles  soar, 

And  thou  must  mourn  in  trouble  sore, 
Thy  majesty  can  rise  no  more. 

Thou  license  gave  to  one  and  all, 

Who   sought  to  run  an  evil  hall; 
And  snare  the  strangers  great  and  small, 

Who   came  within  thy  towering  wall. 

Proud,    defiant,    haughty    queen, 

Some  of  thy  children  now  are  seen; 
Thy  rich,   thy   poor,   thy  good   and  mean, 

Now  are  camping  on  the  green. 

We   hear  no  more  their  joyous  shout 

In  evil   den   or  there-about, 
And   on   the   hilltops    'round   about 

We  search  for  them  but  find  them  not. 

They  fled  from  thee  like  frenzied  sheep, 

And  left  their  home  a  ruined  heap, 
Some  lie  beneath  the  wreckage  deep, 

And  others  in  the  grave  do  sleep. 

O  Frisco,  Frisco,  can  it  be, 

That  thou  wast  blind  and  could  not  see? 
No,  thou  refused  thy  children's  plea 

And  would  not  bend  the  humble  knee. 

They  prayed  for  thee  but  thou  would  not 

Forsake  the  sins  thy  evils  brought, 
The   battle,   stubborn    thou   hast   fought, 

Thy  glory  grand  has  come  to   naught. 

We  sympathize  with  thee,  fair  queen, 

We  pity  thee  and  that  most  keen; 
And  looking  through  thy  future  screen, 

Thou  ne  'er  can  be  what  thou  hast  been. 

We'd  love  again  to  hear  thy  mirth 

In  every  home,    'round  every  hearth, 
But  dust  to  dust,  so  earth  to  earth, 

Thou  must  abide  thy  second  birth. 

We'd  love   to  sing  with   thee  in  song, 
And  help  to  swell  thy  temple's  throng; 

But  thou  hast  heard  the  fireman 's  gong, 
Thy  race  is  run,  it  was  not  long. 

Thy  children 's  virtue  thou  hast  sold, 

Thy  coffers  held  corrupted  gold; 
Thy  history  now  so   quickty  told, 

Is  written  in  ashes  gray  and  cold. 

O  Frisco,  Frisco,  this  is  bad, 

'Tis  most  enough   to   drive  us  mad; 
But  thou  must  be  sincerely  glad 

Thy  awful  fate  was  not  more  sad. 

California  State  Prison,  San  Quentin,  April,  29,  1906. 
J.  Wess  Moore,  life  convict  No.  18759. 


16 


GLIMPSE    OF  PRISON  LIFE 


A  LETTER  FROM  WIFE. 


As  I  entered  my  cell 
Last   night,   my  eyes   fell, 
On    something    not    seen    there 

before, 

A  little  white  sheet 
There  lay  at  my  feet, 
Bedecking      my      cold      prison 
floor. 

As  I  stooped  to  the  ground, 
My   heart   gave   a  bound, 
As  I  wondered  from  whom  it 

could   be, 

What    a   joyful    surprise, 
When   I   feasted   my   eyes 
On     this     letter     which     wife 
wrote  to  me. 

As  I  sat  there  alone, 
In   my  chamber  of  stone, 
Seeming  happy,  contented  and 

gay,- 

In  my  hand  tight  I  hold, 
Something  dearer  than  gold, 
This     letter,     from     wife     far 
away. 

The  writing  so  clear, 

Old-fashioned    and    dear, 
Made   my  heart   beat   in   deep 

ecstacy; 

It  was  written  by  wife, 
My  partner  in  life, 
And    a    dear    one,    she's    ever 
to   me. 

TRIALS  OF  AN 
I    left    San    Quentin's    prison 

gate 

One  morning  in  July, 
With   five  good  dollars  in   my 

fist, 

And  dressed  up  sort  o'  fly. 
They    gave    me    a    ticket    to 

Marys  ville, 

But  I  don't  care  to  go 
Where  everybody  knows  every 

one, 

That   everybody  knows. 
And  I  do  know  they  know  me 

there, 

And  know  that  I  have  been 
For     ten     years     past     behind 

the  walls 

Of  prison  San  Quentiu. 
Should  I  return  to  Marysville, 


In  life  there's  no  other, 
Excepting  a  mother, 
Could    love    me    so    fondly    as 

she; 

Bitter  tears   do  I  shed, 
On  my  rude  prison   bed, 
O'er    the    letters    which    wife 
writes  to  me. 

Two    long    weary    years, 
Since  I  left  her  in  tears, 
In    the    home    that    we    both 

loved   so   well, 
She  writes  me  to-day, 
Her  locks  have  turned  gray, 
Since     I     entered     my     dark 
prison  cell. 

On  your  wife,  Wcss,  depend, 
She  will  stay  to  the  end, 
Was    the    message    this    sweet 

missive  bore; 
Though  now  far  away, 
For  her  do  I  pray, 
As  I  kneel  on  my  cold  prison 
floor. 

Under  sentence   of  life, 
Away  from  my  wife, 

And    the    dear    ones    we    both 

love    so    well, 
For  me  she  will  wait, 
At  San  Quentin's  gate, 

How  long,  God  only  can   tell. 

EX-CONVICT. 

They'd    look    on    me    with 

scorn, 

They'd    say   I'd    been    a    con 
vict  too, 

Perhaps   in   prison  born; 
And    all    such   stuff   they'd    at 

me    fling, 

And  think  it  only  right, 
Because  I  fell  once  in  my  life, 
In   a   beastly   drunken   fight. 
They   do   not   know   that   I've 

reformed, 

Nor  will  they  wait  to  see, 
They  kick  stray  dogs  just  out 

of  scorn, 

And  thus  they  '11  look  on  me. 
So   I  went   down   to  San  Jose 

And  got  a  job  same  day, 
And    went    to    work    with    an 

honest  heart, 
Under  promise  of  good  pay. 


GLIMPSE  OF  PRISON  LIFE 


My  boss  was  kind,  nothing  ill  I'm  hungry  as  can  be; 

did  say,  Please,    can    you    help    a    poor 

And  treated  me  fine  a  week;  ex-con/ 

On  Saturday  night  he  paid  me  Who  loves  his  liberty? 

off,  There's    hundreds    more,    and 

Saying,    ' '  Some   other   place  some  I  met, 

now  seek.  And  they  are  sore  distressed; 

I  can  not  keep  an  ex-con  here,  They're       hungry      too,       and 

And   this   you   surely   know,  broke  besides, 

So      here's      your      pay,      and  And   very  poorly  dressed. 

there's  your  duds,  Or  must  I  go  and  steal  again, 

Just  take  your  grip  and  go. ' '  Or   rob    some   lady   frail, 

I   went   to   many  places   more,  Of  all  her  gold  and  jewels  rare, 

In  search  of  honest  toil,  And   then   go    back   to   jail? 

But   as  I  tramped  from  place  O  God  forbid  me  think  of  this, 

to   place,  And   curse  me  should  I  do   it; 

Some  one  my  chance  would  I'll   seek   till   I   have   found   a 

spoil.  friend, 

And  now  I  'm  broke,  ain  't  got  Or  die  and  never  rue  it. 
a   cent, 

FOR  THE  CHILDREN— STUDY  PENOLOGY,  IT  WILL  PAY. 

A  Word  About  Crime,  Criminals  and  Deterrents. 

Some  penologists  suggest  the  abolishment  of  the  death  pen 
alty  in  cases  of  homicide  and  murder,  but  say  inaugurate  the 
death  penalty  in  cases  of  robbery  and  other  premeditated 
crimes. 

By  a  living,  practical  experience,  and  contact  with  all 
kinds  of  criminals  the  eight  years  last  past,  I  believe  myself 
capable  to  judge  as  to  the  justice  of  such  a  measure,  and  do  so, 
I  am  absolutely  sure,  in  an  unbiased  manner,  without  prejudice. 

Experience,  we  all  must  admit,  is  the  very  best  test,  in  fact, 
it  is  the  crucial  test  which  demonstrates  the  truth  in  all  things, 
then  why  not  in  things  criminal? 

In  such  cases  as  this  of  my  own,  the  death,  or  any  other 
penalty,  is  no  deterrent  at  all,  for:  on  the  impulse  of  the  mo 
ment  all  is  done  that  is  done,  without  any  consideration  of  pen 
alties  whatever,  and  free  from  all  premeditations  prior  to  the 
moment  of  action.  That  which  deters  the  "criminal"  is  meas 
ured  by  his  ability  to  avoid  detection  and  conviction,  only 
when  his  plans  for  escaping  detection  have  been  solved  to  his 
own  satisfaction.  He  does  not  think  of  the  "Penalty"  but 
goes  to  his  hazardous  undertaking  feeling  that  later  on  he  will 
read  in  the  papers  under  glaring  head  lines,  "No  clew  to  the 
perpetrator"  and  will  enjoy  peaceable  possession  of  his  ill- 
gotten  gains,  and  laugh  at  the  police  as  he  listens  to  the  many 
stories  concerning  the  "boldness"  of  the  crime,  fully  secure 
from  detection  for  the  time  being. 

This,  then,  is  the  "criminal's  delight"  for  he  has  at  no  time 
considered  the  penalty,  no  matter  what  it  may  be,  and,  if  the 
death  penalty  will  not  deter  men  who  are  reputed  to  be  good 
citizens,  how  can  we  expect  it  to  deter  the  criminal?  Men  who 
are  deterred,  are  the  ones  who  are  so  deterred  solely  because  of 
their  knowledge  of  right  and  wrong. 

It  is  true  a  promise  of  punishment  made  to  the  child  by  the 
parent,  will  deter  the  child  in  most  cases,  but,  we  grown-up 


18  GLIMPSE;   OF  PEISON  LIFE 


children  seem  to  have  risen  above  the  effectiveness  of  a  "  prom 
ise"  to  punish  and  seem  to  have  ideas  of  our  own  until  we 
find  ourselves  smarting  under  the  folly,  many  times  of  our  own 
carelessness.  I  can  say  without  fear  of  successful  contradic 
tion,  that  the  penalty  of  life  imprisonment,  (or  even  the  pen 
alty  of  a  long  term  of  years),  will  more  successfully  deter  men 
and  boys  than  will  the  death  penalty.  I  am  absolutely  cer 
tain  of  this,  although  I  am  aware  that  it  is  not  possible  for 
many  (who  have  not  had  a  similar  experience)  to  believe  me 
to  be  correct  in  this,  but  I  declare  it  to  be  true. 

I  deem  it  proper  here  to  say  to  the  children,  that  I  was  tried 
and  convicted  in  a  court  of  justice,  I  was  ably  defended  by  the 
Honorable  Horace  E.  Green  of  Weaverville,  Cal.,  whose  hon 
esty  is  as  pure  as  the  brightness  of  the  sun;  and  His  Honor, 
Edward  Sweeny,  of  Eedding  (at  that  time)  now  Supt.  of  the 
U.  S.  Mint,  San  Francisco,  Cal.,  who  sat  as  Judge  at  my  trial, 
was  in  every  way  able,  and  did,  protect  my  every  interest,  yet 
I  was  found  guilty  of  murder  in  the  first  degree,  the  jury  plac 
ing  the  punishment  at  life  imprisonment.  At  the  time  of  the 
homicide,  'I  was  alone,  with  no  friend  near  save  my  hunting 
rifle,  while  there  were  three  of  my  enemies,  two  of  whom  were 
armed  (the  deceased  having  gone  armed  at  all  times),  and, 
having  previously  threatened  my  life  in  the  presence  of  three 
reputable  witnesses  who  were  as  friendly  to  him  as  to  myself. 
I  had  gone  to  the  district  attorney,  D.  J.  Hall,  seeking  a  warrant 
of  arrest,  hoping  that  nothing  more  serious  would  befall  him,  or 
any  one,  than  being  placed  under  bonds  to  keep  the  peace  and 
thereby  restore  quiet  and  order  in  our  entire  neighborhood,  but, 
Mr.  Hall  refused  me  the  warrant  as  he  had  likewise  refused 
Frank  Eobertson  the  same  for  this  same  man,  (Alverson),  for 
the  same  kind  of  threat  against  Eobertson  but  a  few  weeks 
prior;  and  by  this  refusal  to  grant  to  me  the  protection  of  the 
law,  Hall's  neglect  became  criminal  to  that  degree  which  made 
him  responsible  for  the  threat  of  Alverson  on  May  19,  1901, 
for  which  crime  he  tried  hard  to  hang  me. 


Stye  gwteiij  far  tty 

General  Office  789  Market  St.,  San  Francisco,  Calif.—  Organized 
March    6th,    1909. 

Samuel  E.  Mitchell,  President,  789  Market  St.,  San  Fran 
cisco,  Cal.;  Ed.  F.  Spicer,  Chairman,  142  Cortland  avenue,  San 
Francisco;  Mrs.  M.  V.  Newman,  General  Secretary,  2201  Ath- 
erton  St.,  Berkeley,  Cal.;  Mrs.  Maude  Hazekamp,  Correspond 
ing  and  Visiting  Secretary,  789  Market  St.,  San  Francisco,  Cal.; 
0.  W.  Calhoun,  Printing  and  Stationery  Secretary,  2434  Dwight 
Way,  Berkeley,  Calif.;  J.  Wess  Moore,  Soliciting  Financial  Sec 
retary,  557  Sycamore  St.,  Oakland;  Mrs.  Visalia  Eees,  Visiting 
and  Corresponding  Secretary,  994  Fourth  avenue,  East  Oakland, 
Calif. 
Dear  Friend: 

The  Society  for  the  Friendless  appeals  to  you  for  support. 
We  hope  to  receive  your  financial,  as  well  as  your  moral  sup 
port.  When  you  understand  that  many  men  and  boys  have  al 
ready  been  paroled  from  our  two  prisons,  and,  that  nearly  all 


GLIMPSE    OF  PRISON  LIFE  19 


have,  and  are,  making  good  citizens  of  themselves;  and  when 
you  understand  that  many  good  men  and  boys  are  now  in  prison 
who  have  earned  all  the  credits  laid  down  by  the  law  in  order 
to  become  eligible  for  parole,  and  whom  the  prison  wardens 
are  ready  to  recommend  for  parole,  but  having  neither  people, 
friends  or  money  of  their  own  in  this  State  to  assit  them,  and 
when  you  also  understand  that  society  will  receive  a  Daroled 
prisoner  much  better  and  with  more  confidence  than  the  dis- 
charged-at-expiration-of-term-convict,  is  received,  we  believe 
you  will  be  willing  to  give  this  work  not  only  your  hearty  moral 
but  your  financial  support  as  well. 

Parole,  before  the  sentence  has  been  completed,  inspires  much 
hope  in  each  convict,  so  paroled,  and  as  a  matter  of  reform, 
there  is  no  greater  reformatory  measure. 

This  is  a  fact,  parole  a  criminal  and  treat  him  humanely  and 
he  will  not  lapse  to  crime. 

Parole  the  prisoner  who  is  not  yet  a  hardened  criminal,  and 
save  him  from  a  career  of  vice. 

The  prisoner  paroled  has  a  chance  to  establish  himsolf  in 
society.  If  kept  in  prison  until  the  expiration  of  his  term  he 
comes  out  an  ex-convict,  believing  himself  despised  bv  the 
world  and  is  often,  as  he  believes  forced  into  the  ways  of  the 
criminal. 

This  is  not  so  with  those  paroled,  so  let  us  secure  home  and 
parole  for  many  of  those  unfortunate  creatures  and  help  make 
men  of  them,  and  restore  them  to  useful  citizenship. 

The  cost  of  parole.  Advertising,  not  less  than  $2,  and  in 
some  instances,  $6.  Fare  and  meals  en  route  to  place  of  em 
ployment,  $1  to  $20.  Clothing,  (every  garment  worn  from  head 
to  foot,)  not  less  than  $18.  Deposit  'with  the  Warden,  $25. 

Tf  vou  will  help  supply  the  means  to  carry  on  this  good  work, 
the  Society  for  the  Friendless  will  perform  the  labor.  Each 
member  of  this  Society  has  a  business  of  his  or  her  own  to  at 
tend,  other  than  this  work,  yet,  we  will  give  all  the  time  nec 
essary  to  perform  our  duties  well. 

The  Society  for  the  Friendless  will  aid  worthy  prisoners  now 
confined  in  San  Quontin  and  Folsom,  who  have  neither  money 
or  friends  to  assist  them  to  secure  parole,  and  will  aid  the 
needy  and  dependent  mothers,  wives  and  little  ones  of  paroled 
and  other  prisoners,  will  look  after  the  sick  and  distressed  in 
all  cases  coming  to  our  notice,  no  matter  by  whom  so  reported. 
There  are,  scattered  throughout  our  State,  many  who  suffer 
more  than  do  those  incarcerated,  and  upon  whom  the  hand  of 
scorn  rests  heavily.  Let  us  help  them. 

For  all  snch  prisoners  whom  the  wardens  and  the  State  Board 
of  Prison  Directors  will  recomm^d  as  worthy  of  such  aid,  and 
who  are  wiling  to  lead  correct  lives  and  becomp  good  ^citizens 
again,  we  will  secure  employment,  will  furnish  clothing  and 
the  necessarv  funds  for  depos't.  and  will  do  all  that  can  be 
done  to  assist  those  who  will  make  an  effort  to  help  themselves. 

Our  labors  will  be  confined  strictlv  to  the  work  outlined  above, 
and  we  shall  work  in  harmonv  with  the  Honorable  State  Board 
of  Prison  Directors  and  the  prison  wardens. 

Funds  will  be  raised  bv  general  subscriptions,  and  the  sale 
of  Glimpses  of  Prison  Life. 


GLIMPSE    OF  PRISON  LIFE 


The  amount  for  clothing  and  other  incidental  expense  money, 
may  be  replaced  by  the  one  paroled  when  he  or  she  has  earned 
and  can  spare  it.  The  whole  amount  being  considered  by  the 
prisoner,  as  a  loan,  except  in  extreme  and  worthy  cases,  when 
all  but  the  deposit  shall  be  a  gift. 

Receipts  bearing  the  stamp  of  the  Society  for  the  Friendless 
will  be  given  all  subscribers,  who  contribute  $1  or  more,  giving 
date  of  payment  and  amount  subscribed. 

Several  of  our  best  business  men  and  business  firms  co-oper 
ate  with  us  and  will  employ  all  the  paroled  men  we  can  send 
them,  at  top  notch  wages.  Endorsed  by  the  Associated  Chari 
ties. 

TO  WHOM  IT  MAY  CONCERN. 

The  undersigned,  Prisoners  of  San  Quentin,  California,  as  a  committee 
of  the  whole,  representing  the  different  races  and  creeds  of  people  in  this 
institution,  desire  to  express  to  our  departing  comrade,  J.  Wess  Moore,  life 
sentenced  convict,  No.  18759,  our  sincere  appreciation  of  his  manly  and 
Christian  conduct,  during  the  eight  years  last  past  within  these  walls. 

We  express  the  general,  and  almost  universal  sentiment  of  good  will 
and  sincere  appreciation  felt  here  because  of  his  heroic  efforts  to  better 
the  condition  of  his  fellow  prisoners,  and  his  implicit  trust  and  confidence 
in  society  at  large,  to  aid  this  cause,  when  made  conversant  with  the 
needs  of  the  State  condemned. 

We  sincerely  hope  that  our  departing  comrade  may  be  blessed  with 
health,  strength  and  long  life,  and  that  his  efforts  to  elevate  and  uplift 
humanity  may  be  crowned  with  success,  and  that  his  end  may  be  peaceful 
as  his  earnest  life  here  has  demonstrated  he  richly  deserves,  and  to  this 
end  we  shall  ever  pray. 

No.    19826.      Jaun  Zamora,   speaking  for  the  Mexican  race. 
No.   21410.      Jarrett  Irving,   speaking  for  the  White  race. 
No.   21518.     Wm.   Hutchersen,    speaking  for  the   Colored  race. 
No.   20314.      James  R.  Stokes,   speaking  for  the  White  race. 
No.   18837.      Justin  Brown,   speaking  for  the  White  race. 
Dated  at  San  Quentin,   California,   November  27,   1908. 

San  Quentin,   November  28,   1908. 

We,  the  undersigned,  inmates  and  co-dwellers  of  Room  B,  feel  called 
upon  at  this  time  to  express  the  deep  feeling  and  sincere,  heartfelt  grati 
tude  in  which  we  hold  our  esteemed,  noble  patriot,  J.  Wcss  Moore. 

It  is  with  feelings  of  rare  pleasure  that  we  are  assembled  here  to  bid 
farewell  to  one  who  has  endeared  himself  to  all;  his  Christian  heart,  a 
heart  which  carries  in  it  nothing  but  kindness  and  willingness  to  assist 
in  uplifting  of  poor  sinners,  who  have  fallen  by  the  wayside. 

We  all  know  what  a  power  of  good  he  has  been  in  aiding  to  elevate 
the  spiritual  welfare  of  the  inmates  of  this  room  and  as  one  man  we  u;iite 
in  the  wish  that  he  may  live  long  to  do  good  outside  of  these  prison  walls. 

We  could  dwell  long  upon  the  character  of  our  esteemed  friend,  but 
suflice  to  say  that  he  will  long  dwell  in  our  memory  as  a  "Grand  old  man." 

The  assiduous  interest  he  has  ever  taken  in  us  all  impels  our  admira 
tion  and  love,  and  such  expressions  mean  much  in  this  "city  of  sighs 
and  tears." 

These  resolutions  are  prompted  by  a  motive  of  sincere  regard  and  as 
an  assurance  that  it  will  be  long  before  the  tenants  of  Room  B  forget  the 
kindly  countenance  of  J.  Wess  Moore. 

M     J.   Burkhart,  Chas.    Butscher,  J.    McEvoy, 

G.    M.    Green,  Carl    Eggert,  19101, 

W     H     Lambert,  A.  J.  Canaday,  C.    A.    Davis, 

Allan    B.    Lewis,  O.    Blum,  J.    H.    Pooler, 

J.   McCarthy,  J.   C.  Wade,  B.    Contreras, 

A    L    Larson,  Raphael    Caruso,  22590, 

C.    S.    Jones,  J.    A.    Chavez,  Reg.    21259, 

Frank  J    Williams,  P.    Middlemiss,  Frank    Johnson, 

Jesse    Gibson,  Albert    H.    Gotzentor,  W.    Wilson, 

Fred    Rebolledo,  W.    C.    James,  John    O'Brien, 

Jos.  Lorey,  19373,  J.    H.    Williams, 

J.  B.   Stewart,  22733,  16650, 

M.  M.  Higuera,  John  Grady,  Gripe   x, 

R.   Velarde,  W.    N.    Chord,  Pete    Ford. 

17733,  W.    Rhodes, 


EACH  MEMBER  OF  THE  SOCIETY  OF 
THE  FRIENDLESS  IS  AN  AGENT  FOR 
THIS  BOOK. 


Press  o 
MILLER  &  CO 

la?:)   Bioailwuy 


YB 


^  /  ET  ' 

£t>Oo 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


